#lacy

To pretend you don't feel a certain strangeness after living in England for 40 years is a fallacy. ↗

— Trevor McDonald

#certain #england #fallacy #feel #living

Democracy is beautiful in theory; in practice it is a fallacy. ↗

— Benito Mussolini

#democracy #fallacy #practice #theory

The belief that youth is the happiest time of life is founded on a fallacy. The happiest person is the person who thinks the most interesting thoughts, and we grow happier as we grow older. ↗

— William Lyon Phelps

#fallacy #founded #grow #happier #happiest

It's a fallacy that writers have to shut themselves up in their ivory towers to write. I have all these interruptions, three of which I gave birth to. If I was thrown for a loop every time I was distracted I could never get anything done. ↗

— Jodi Picoult

#birth #could #distracted #done #every

A sane mind should not be guilty of a logical fallacy, yet there are very fine minds incapable of following mathematical demonstrations. ↗

— Henri Poincare

#fallacy #fine #following #guilty #incapable

As Lacy waited for her turn to speak on Peter's behalf, she thought back to the first time she realized she could hate her own child. ↗

— Jodi Picoult

#hate #lacy #motherhood #peter #unconditional-love

I had become too accustomed to the pseudo-Left new style, whereby if your opponent thought he had identified your lowest possible motive, he was quite certain that he had isolated the only real one. This vulgar method, which is now the norm and the standard in much non-Left journalism as well, is designed to have the effect of making any noisy moron into a master analyst. ↗

— Christopher Hitchens

#argumentation #fallacy #journalism #leftism #design

Here's the thing- I love you and I love her, but I swear to God I'll kick your ass if you hurt her. ↗

— Katie McGarry

#lacy #friendship

They couldn't talk. They were not good talkers, either of them. And once, long ago now, she had bought a notebook for a course. It lay empty and forgotten on the kitchen table until one afternoon, when she had gone out to the shops and he was worried that she would be killed by a bus or by lightning, he opened the notebook and he wrote lines about how he loved her, the way he loved her, about his fucking heart and crap like that, about his body brimful and his scrambled head. All that. She came back from the shops. He left the notebook where it was, and he didn't mention it. And it wasn't until about a week later that he noticed it again, and he flicked it open, and he saw his lines followed by lines from her. She'd written words that she had never said. He sat down. He read them over and over for a long time. Then he wrote a paragraph for her to find. ↗

— Keith Ridgway

#love #writing #love

The men rode into Beaver Run like two horsemen of the apocalypse, justice on a white horse and war on a red. The few citizens walking through the muddy streets hurried to get out of their path, while those milling on the plank walkways stared as the duo passed. Danger. Long and lean, both sat their saddles with the ease of men accustomed to mastering both the beasts beneath them and the world around them. Their dusters hung to the tops of their boots and were covered in trail dust. Their hats, pulled low, cast shadows over their faces. Rifles were mounted to their horses' saddles and each man had a gun strapped to his thigh. ↗

— Suzanne Ferrell

#men